


see straight through you

by ceserabeau



Series: White Collar AU [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV), White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Alternate Universe - White Collar Fusion, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-14 00:34:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1246078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles expects whoever the fed is to be middle aged, possibly balding, definitely a bit pudgy around the waist, but when he turns he’s pleasantly surprised. Because wow, this guy is easy on the eyes and Stiles likes that in a man, especially one he’s going to be seeing a lot more of.</p><p>Or, the White Collar AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	see straight through you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Gold_ by Sir Sly
> 
> Because Dylan O'Brien looks fantastic in [a](http://www.fangirlish.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/Dylan-OBrien-3.jpg%20) [suit](http://daman.co.id/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/Outfit-by-Hugo-Boss-.jpg%20).

The first time Stiles meets Agent Derek Hale, it doesn’t really register who or what he is because Stiles’ attention is entirely on the Rodin bust that will hopefully be making its way into his apartment at some point in the near future. It isn’t until Lydia elbows him very unsubtly that he even notices there’s another person in the room besides the two of them.

“FBI, on your six,” Lydia mumbles, then vanishes in a swirl of red hair and clacking heels. Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Scott slipping through a side door, quick as a flash.

Stiles expects whoever the fed is to be middle aged, possibly balding, definitely a bit pudgy around the waist, but when he turns he’s pleasantly surprised. Because wow, this guy is easy on the eyes and Stiles likes that in a man, especially one he’s going to be seeing a lot more of. 

-

The first time Derek meets Stiles Stilinski, he doesn’t know who he is.

To be fair, at the time they meet his nametag says Billy and he’s shuffling cards like the professional croupier he’s pretending to be. There’s absolutely no reason to think that this guy, with his baby face and long fingers and freckles, is the guy who’s about to steal the rare Magritte on the wall behind him.

It’s only after he gets tased – and really, who even does that? – that he recognises the knowing half-smile on the croupier’s face as he caught Derek’s eye over his first hand. He’s seen it before, at multiple crime scenes, in surveillance photos, behind sunglasses and under hats, never the centre of attention but off to side, hidden in the crowd.

The goddamn croupier is the criminal mastermind Derek’s been hunting for two years.

-

They’re taking a quick break in D.C. when Stiles finds out that someone at the FBI has given him a nickname. It’s on his wanted poster, right next to his face in all its blurry glory: the Kid.

_The Kid._

“Shut up, Stiles,” Lydia says, “you are a kid.”

Stiles grumbles about it for the rest of the day, until Lydia slaps him upside the head.

“Don’t be mad,” she says, leaning over the table to unroll a new set of blueprints. Stiles takes a moment to appreciate the way her skirt rides up. “They’re not very original over at the FBI. If they were, they’d have caught us by now.”

Stiles sighs and picks up a pen. “Ok, ok,” he says as he starts marking exit routes. “Let’s focus on the job. I want to get this Warhol before the exhibition moves on.”

Scott waves a sheaf of papers at him. “But it’s insured by Sterling Bosch. They’ll come after us.”

“You _want_ them to come after us,” Lydia corrects him. “You want one particular investigator to come after us.”

Scott’s answering blush goes all the way up to his hairline. “It’s got nothing to do with Kira,” he says.

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Scott, we all know you have a crush on her. Stop pretending you don’t.”

“Fuck off,” Scott says, but there’s a smile hiding at the corner of his mouth. He leans over the table, pointing to the routes Stiles has mapped. “Ok, so tell me again how we’re breaking into the Smithsonian.”

-

Argent and Lahey are excellent agents, smart and quick and eager – _puppies_ , Laura calls them the first time they come over – but Stilinski is so much smarter than them and Derek put together. They have a board in the conference room covered in pictures of him, well-dressed and grinning. In most of them he’s staring down the camera like he knows they’re watching, but no matter how many times he pops up on their radars, they can never catch him in the act.

They've figured out that there are two partners, but can only put a name and face to one: a flawless redhead named Lydia Martin. It’s fairly obvious Stilinski is in love with her from the way he opens doors for her and always offers his arm, the soft look in his eyes as they follow her on grainy surveillance tapes.

Derek’s not jealous, but he can’t help wondering what it would feel like to have that look turned on him.

-

The phone in the office rings and Derek picks up, expecting to hear his boss. Instead a familiar voice asks: “Agent Hale, is that you?”

Derek sits up his chair, fingers clicking for Allison’s attention. _Trace it_ , he mouths, and turns back to the phone.

“Stilinski,” he says, “nice to hear from you.”

There’s a laugh down the line, different to how Derek expected. “Well I couldn’t leave you hanging now, could I?”

Allison is nodding at him: trace is a go. Derek feels a familiar tension settle over him; he’s not letting the Kid get away from him this time.

“Why do I get the feeling this is a courtesy call?” he asks, because he’s learned by now that Stilinski likes to play games as often as he can.

“You’ll see,” the Kid says.

Derek hums down the line. “I’d rather you told me.”

“I wouldn’t want to ruin the fun,” Stilinski says, and Derek can hear him smiling, the smug little shit.

“Do you know what would be fun? You turning yourself in.”

Stilinski laughs again, low and intimate, and Derek’s stomach flips. “That’d be too easy,” he says, “I know how you like a challenge.”

In the background Derek can hear muted voices, someone saying _five seconds_. Stilinski makes hushing noises. “I have to go,” he says, and he even sounds apologetic. “See you soon, Derek.”

The phone goes dead but when he looks up, Allison is flashing him a thumbs up and thank God for that. Then she spins the laptop around and Derek feels any elation drain out of him.

“What the hell is he doing at the Guggenheim?”

-

Something changes. Martin stops appearing in their photos and Stilinski starts getting sloppy. By the time they finally catch him, Derek can pin at least six counts of art theft on him, not to mention the forgeries and the racketeering. He tells Stilinski as much, sitting opposite him in the back of a police van.

“Sounds like you’ve been working pretty hard,” Stilinski says.

“You’re very nonchalant for someone who’s looking at jail time,” he says in return.

For some reason Stilinski grins. It makes his face look young, boyish, and Derek is reminded that he’s only twenty two. Twenty two and one of the most wanted white collar criminals in the entire country, sitting on top of thousands upon thousands of dollars in stolen art and swindled money. When Derek was twenty two he was graduating college, about to join the Police Academy. Funny the way things go.

Stilinski’s drawl brings him back. “It was worth it,” he says and he leers at Derek, eyes dancing, “just to spend a minute with you.”

Derek barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “You’re looking at a minimum of four years,” he tells him. “If you give up your partners, it could be as little as two.”

Stilinski chuckles, looking smug. “If you can’t catch them, that's your problem. I'm not gonna help you.”

Derek takes him in: the lazy slouch, the shit-eating grin, the way he’s wearing handcuffs like some sort of casual accessory. Almost like he wanted to get caught, like he’s enjoying himself.

If it wasn’t for the hunted look in his eyes, Derek might actually believe him.

-

Prison is hard. Stiles used to joke that he was too pretty for prison, but it’s true and it makes him an easy target. He tries not to drop the soap, but he realises fast that soap has nothing to do with it. They come for him no matter what he does, no matter how hard he fights.

Scott comes to see him once, _just_ the once, and looks like he’s going to cry when he gets a look at Stiles’ battered face. “I’m going to talk to my dad,” he says, “see if we can’t get you moved.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles says, smiles lopsidedly through scabbed lips, “I’ve got a plan.”

Scott looks like he’s going to call bullshit, but it’s true, he does have a plan. He’s no good at violence, at using force, so he uses the skills he does have: his mind and his mouth. He’s always found that words are better threats than fists anyway and he’s proven right, not for the first time. Admittedly it does end with a small amount of blood on his hands, but it’s worth it. People slowly but surely start leaving him alone.

No one comes to visit him after that, so to make up for the loneliness he draws. Reproductions and originals, landscapes and portraits, paintings and sketches, charcoal and ink. His cell is full of them, so he starts selling them to the other prisoners. It’s good, it’s easy, he makes money and even some friends.

One year goes by, two years, three years. He keeps going, keeps his head down, until Lydia comes to see him.

“Goodbye, Stiles,” and she smiles at him, beautiful but sad, like this is the last time she’ll ever smile at him. “It’s been real.”

-

“Stilinski escaped,” Allison says and Derek feels the bottom drop out of his stomach.

-

Good old Derek Hale finds him in Lydia’s empty brownstone, clutching a page in his hand. There’s a familiar tree drawn on it, leafless and bare, stretching up across the page in Lydia’s perfect lines. He knows what is means, but it’s so hard to believe that she’s really gone.

“What does it mean?” Derek asks, looming over him like some sort of grim reaper.

Stiles lets out a laugh that’s half-sob. “It’s a goodbye,” he mumbles. He can feel the tears running down his face. “She’s gone. I missed her by two days.”

Derek looks like he’s on the verge of apologising. What he says instead is: “You’re going back to jail, Stilinski.”

 _Stilinski_. God he is sick of hearing that word. Every morning at roll call on the lips of guards, and every other moment of the day, sounded out by his fellow prisoners in soft whispers or harsh yells.

“Stiles," he says, "call me Stiles.”

Derek looks down at him like he’s a puzzle to be solved, and he hates that look almost as much as he hates the sound of his own name.

“Well Stiles,” and wow he’s has never heard his name said in quite that tone, amused and fond and disparaging all at once, “there’s a set of handcuffs here with your name on if you’d like to stand up.”

Stiles smiles and levers himself up, lets Derek slide the metal around his wrists once more. Derek tries to lead him away, but Stiles stops him with a hand on his shoulder. There’s a piece of fiber there, caught under the collar of his jacket.

“Why do you have this on your shoulder?” he asks, pulling it away to get a better look.

Derek looks at him with a familiar frown. “You know what it is?”

Stiles feels his brain kick up a gear, plan forming suddenly, pieces slotting into place. “Yeah,” he says, “what’s it worth for me to tell you?”

-

Derek gives him a new life, as well as a tracking anklet that itches like a bitch.

“It looks good on you,” he says as Stiles hikes his pants leg up to show him.

Stiles laughs, until he sees just how possessively Derek is looking at him. It makes his stomach drop a little; he’s lost count of the number of times he’s jerked off to the thought of Derek looking at him like that.

Some of it must show on his face because Derek looks away suddenly. And Stiles wants his gaze back immediately, heavy like something physical, because it’s keeping him captive a hell of a lot more than some plastic anklet.

-

It’s almost pitch black in the motel room except for where the city lights are reflecting through the window, but Stiles would recognise the outline of Scott’s head anywhere.

“Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asks, flipping on the light.

Scott grins at him and _god_ , Stiles has missed his stupid face. Four years is a long time. He crashes into him so hard they topple back onto the bed, arms tight around each other. Stiles buries his face in Scott’s neck and tries not to cry.

“It’s okay,” Scott mumbles into his hair. “You’re safe.”

They lay like that for a long time. Scott is warm and soft beneath him, smelling like detergent and the same cheap cologne he’s always worn. It’s calming and Stiles relaxes into him, drifting in his familiar embrace.

“Get your stuff,” Scott says eventually, “you’re coming to mine.”

Stiles pushes himself up so he can look at Scott, who just smiles happily up at him. “I can’t, man, that’s too obvious.”

Scott’s eye roll is fond. “Dude, you can’t stay _here_. This place is possibly the worst place you’ve ever stayed, including that time is Rio in with the bed bugs.”

Stiles grins. He’d forgotten about that: him and Scott in a sweltering hotel, covered in bites, peeling back neon green covers to unveil writhing swarms all over their sheets, having to throw away all their belongings, scrabbling around to find a new place to stay in the middle of carnival season.

But.

“Derek isn’t stupid,” he says, “he’ll figure it out. I won’t let you get in trouble when –”

Scott holds up a hand. “ _If_ Derek starts asking questions, I’ll just sic my dad on him.” He grips Stiles’ arms tight. “Please man, I missed you.”

It’s a low blow, but Stiles has never denied Scott anything and he’s not about to now. So he says, “yeah, yeah, okay,” and let’s himself be dragged away.

-

Stiles’ first day of work is a Monday. Derek is waiting for the anklet to be triggered, or at the very least having to go and pick him up from his new home. And yet, at nine o’clock the elevator doors open and Stiles steps onto their floor. In an amazing well-fitted suit, that literally looks like it was made to fit his body, and Derek is reminded of how inappropriate Stiles got when they were chasing him.

 _It’s only a few years_ , he thinks, _it’s not going to be that hard_.

Then Stiles winks at him through the glass. Well, shit.

**Author's Note:**

> So in my mind, Scott and Stiles grew up together and Melissa lets Stiles live with them because he’s practically family. Secretly she knows what the two of them are up to, but she’s not a huge fan of law enforcement and is very good at giving Derek the run-around. Rafael McCall is Derek’s boss and Scott uses that as an excuse to be in the building all the time, bringing Stiles lunch and nosing around in their cases. Lydia is off in some Europe somewhere with no extradition, running cons with the twins and Danny as their tech guy. Aaaaand Chris Argent is obviously the senator who Derek is super keen to take down.


End file.
